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Salvador Dalí.  "Figure at a window"

Salvador Dalí. “Girl standing at a window”

Not just for pleasure I sit here. There is a song opening and spreading out from this silence. It shakes certain thresholds, so dark or bright that it blinds. Not with words, with brief stone figures, moss and smells of rain on a desert. It grows and moves forward with its victory´s tremor over dream-like meadows, here, beside this quietness pressing and waiting. Then the first sound have to be sent out, forming the first letter, unfolding out the first words, as a red carpet of roses and silks before the smooth bed, throbbing by the desire delayed so many times. What to do? Break off with everything and chop down the bloomed stems of the first dawn? Run away singing through the paths without a painful string tautening the perfect tune?
Raising to face the burden of life, maybe. Sinking down into the noisy dalliance of everyday. Weaving quotes, signing footnotes, paying bills and keeping on going. Moving forward. Not just looking at, from this station, wagons of people getting on and off, with their well-aimed screams and their children crying; and saying goodbye to them with a smile of lost homesickness. Where do they go? What are they seeking for? Can’t they hear how the landscape is singing its deep litany, voiceless and detained before that one who is leaving himself behind for good? A vain figure of woman or man that was cut short in the middle of what could have been and wasn’t, but who is being just now, there where life is crashing into itself and opening, as an absurd flower on oceans of concrete and stone.

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